


Domestic

by dormiensa



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, Dragonlock, Fluff and Crack, Gen, POV First Person, Profanity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-21 04:41:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2455079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dormiensa/pseuds/dormiensa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John rethinks his living arrangements after yet ANOTHER accident.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Domestic

“That’s it!  I’ve had enough!”  I said to the ceiling.

 

It’d been a long day at the clinic.  All I wanted was to sit in my chair with a cuppa.  But no, that wasn’t going to happen.  Instead, I was going next door to Speedy’s.  Once my back stopped aching sufficiently for me to get up off the floor.

 

“Are you all right, dear?”  

 

Ah, Mrs. Hudson.  Must’ve been drawn to the racket I made falling down the stairs after slipping on yet _another_ one of those damned things.  I struggled to my feet, put a hand to the wall to steady myself, and then patted her on the shoulder.  

 

“I’m fine, Mrs. Hudson.  Just slipped on the stairs.  If you _do_ have to go up, watch your step.  I’m just going out for a bit, but I’ll be back to clean the stuff up.  And don’t you even _try_ to do it while I’m away—you know how bad your hips get afterwards.”

 

She gave a grateful smile and stepped back into her rooms.  

 

I placed the cup of tea on the table in the farthest corner of the café, sat down, and winced as my body came into contact with the back of the chair.   _The buggering sod! **And** his I’m-always-right brother!_  There was nothing to be done but swallow my pride and accept Mycroft’s offer to send over a cleaner.  Smirking, I decided that I’d schedule the clean-up for 2:00 p.m., Sherlock’s lunch hour—when he bothered to eat at all, that is.  I made a mental note to ask Mycroft for a person who wouldn’t be easily scared off with a huffing dragon underfoot.

 

I shook my head.  Had I known his true nature from the start, I’d never have agreed to the flat-share, even _after_ I shot the cabbie.  Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other my arse!  And yes, there _is_ something worse than sharing a flat with a man who contaminates the kitchen with his experiments on rotting body parts, who shoots the walls with _your_ gun when he’s bored, who drives away all your girlfriends, and who expects you to skip work and leave a poor patient hanging whenever there’s an interesting case above an eight (all right, fine, that last one isn’t so bad).  And do you know what’s worse?  A _dragon_ that does all those things, besides also shedding like a Persian Longhair in summer and leaving his scales all over for people to slip on and crack their head falling down stairs.  I suppose it’s a small mercy that most of his magic goes into keeping his form small and human-sized because it prevents him from producing and spewing fire.  

 

Although it had been a close call the day an accidental flame was snorted out of his nostrils and caught a pile of magazines, setting them on fire.  I never realized how many flammable items we had shrewn around the apartment until then.  It took me a week to sort and stack everything so that there was less risk of Sherlock accidentally setting the entire building on fire, especially if I wasn’t around to watch him.  Now, if I could have a discreet word with the cleaner about getting _rid_ of some of the stuff…

 

I sighed and sipped my tea.  Yes, living with a dragon, even a part-time one, was… interesting.  And the shedding scales weren’t the worst bits.  Although, _cleaning_ them up was definitely a major undertaking.  I’d ruined two vacuum cleaners before I realized that the only way to remove them was picking them up off the floor.  And if you think paper cuts hurt…!  

 

But no, the worst thing about living with a dragon are the dung piles.  They never tell you about _that_ in all those children’s fairytales.  Even fucking _Tolkien_ never mentioned it in his stories.  Gives the Desolation of Smaug a whole new level of meaning.  That stuff can burn through concrete if you leave it long enough!  But to be fair, Sherlock isn’t _so_ uncivilized that he doesn’t use the toilet, but when he’s excited about a new case and pacing about trying to connect things…

 

Still, it could be worse.  I could be living full-time with a full-sized dragon.  Of course, we wouldn’t be living at 221B Baker Street.  We couldn’t fit even his head through the front door!  I saw Sherlock in all his glory that time Lestrade’s case took us up to the North York Moors.  In his excitement, he’d completely forgot himself and transformed.  It’s a good thing he realized just in time and managed to hover over the crime scene.  A twenty meter-long dragon would’ve destroyed any evidence, never mind the bodies and all of Lestrade’s crew, under his weight.  I will say, one good thing to come out of that shocker is that Anderson and Donovan have been a lot more cautious about what they say around him now.  Oh, well, two things, I suppose: we got a request from the park keepers for more of “that amazing fertilizer”.  I can see why: that was the biggest load of shite Sherlock has ever subjected me to, and that’s _including_ the whopper about Mycroft being dropped as an egg to explain why he’s such a tit.  I’ve since met their mum, and she told me that Sherlock fell out of his crib and on his head when he was three months old—and set it on fire in revenge.  Explains why _he’s_ such a tit.

 

I suddenly remembered that I was supposed to buy milk.  I finished my tea and headed to Tesco.  

 

As I browsed for some fruits, I noticed the Cripps Pinks were on sale.  For a person who barely ate, Sherlock was a finicky and picky eater.  He’d taken a liking to them when I bought them accidentally, so I made sure to get some whenever I saw them.  I will say, they taste fantastic when roasted.  Despite Sherlock’s lack of abilities in the domestic areas, he _can_ make a really good cinnamon-sugar-coated apples dish.  Guess there’s an advantage to being able to produce your own _flambé_.  

 

And I suppose living with a dragon isn’t all that bad.  Except when he’s excited over a case, he doesn’t need to morph into his dragon form more than three times a month.  And it’s actually kind of cute to see him curled up in his bed, on top of the pile of gold bars he usually keeps in a burlap bag at the bottom of his wardrobe.  And his keen sense of smell makes for hilarious deductions about Mycroft whenever the man decides to drop in.  The time Sherlock got his brother so enraged that he transformed and busted the seams of his bespoke suit is one I’ll never forget.

 

As I put the key in the lock of the front door, I smiled.  The rent would be up next week.  Guess I should go upstairs and write Mrs. Hudson a cheque.  When I opened the door and saw the tall, broad-shouldered valkyrie sweeping the stairs, my grin widened.  

  
  
  



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